


II: when the dealing's done

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Competence Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Q can Push it real good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27939648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: Eliot’s never seen Quentin like this before, every movement and expression deliberate. It stilllookslike his normal blend of fidgeting and insecurity, but it’snot, it’s something entirely new, and Quentin is fuckinggoodat it. Despite all appearances, he’s perfectly in control, and Eliot’s hedge king costume pants were not designed to accommodate the reaction he’s having.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 19
Kudos: 172
Collections: Seven Times Quentin gave Eliot that Good Dick





	II: when the dealing's done

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to: Christa for beta reading, Aud for the gorgeous moodboard below, Rubi for organizing this event, and the whole Peaches & Plums server for being amazing. <3 
> 
> (Also, shoutout to deku_hinata, who has the most organized bookmarks in all of Magicians fandom — discussion of your excellent tagging system led, in a roundabout way, to this collection existing. Ping us if you see this and you want to join the party! :D)

  


Eliot is trying, desperately trying, to look intimidatingly cool. It should be easy: the chair he’s lounging in is exceptionally comfortable and complements his suit perfectly. His hair is immaculate. He’s got a fucking silver-headed cane in his hand, for fuck’s sake. All the pieces of his “inhumanly beautiful and very dangerous hedge king” costume are in place.

...Except his face, which he is fighting an uphill battle to keep under control. He’s going for impassive, slightly bored. He’s worried he keeps landing on unbelievably horny. Because how in the actual world did he not _know_ that watching his boyfriend fucking roll some hedges at Push would be the _absolute hottest thing he's ever seen_?

The way they have the room set up, Eliot’s sitting perpendicular to the table, giving him a good view of both players, Quentin and the hedge he’s playing against — who is also very attractive, actually, flawless dark skin, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to reveal well-defined forearms, hairline so sharp it could cut you. He certainly looks more put-together than Quentin does in his ratty blue hoodie and slightly mussed hair.

But that’s _part_ of it, part of the scam. As is Quentin’s nervous frown, the little wrinkle between his eyebrows. The way he keeps twirling one of the drawstrings of his hoodie between his fingers. The hedge has a pretty good poker face, but his eyes are smug. He thinks he has this in the bag. Eliot thinks about how wrong he is and manages to keep himself from shivering.

The pair draw cards and turn them over: point to the hedge. Next card, same thing. And the next. Quentin’s jaw tightens just a tiny bit, like he couldn’t help reacting but he’s trying to hide it as much as possible. The hedge’s boss tosses a look over to Eliot, like, _you sure your boy here was the right choice for this_? Eliot glances back at her coolly. Somehow. At least taking his eyes off of Quentin will give him a moment to breathe.

When he looks back, his gaze is drawn like a magnet to Quentin’s hand that’s under the table, resting casually on the knee of his well-worn jeans. Quentin touches the top card of his deck, and his hidden ring finger moves just so, and when he turns his card over it’s the Jack of Spades, just barely high enough to beat the ten his opponent flips. Quentin’s eyes flash with joy: another calculated false tell, but only Eliot knows that.

And it just. Keeps. Going. Eliot’s never seen Quentin like this before, every movement and expression deliberate. It still _looks_ like his normal blend of fidgeting and insecurity, but it’s _not_ , it’s something entirely new, and Quentin is fucking _good_ at it. Despite all appearances, he’s perfectly in control, and Eliot’s hedge king costume pants were not designed to accommodate the reaction he’s having.

The deck of cards slowly dwindles, Quentin and his opponent continuing to do tiny little probability spells. A twist of the wrist yields a four over a three, the precise slide of Quentin’s thumb along his thigh reveals a nine versus his opponent’s two. Quentin curls his index finger and both cards come up sevens, and then there are hats on the table, and Quentin’s doing this thing where he holds his remaining deck and throws cards into the hat by just kind of flicking his index finger, and Eliot is actually sweating, he thinks. He hopes the dim lighting helps mask it.

Quentin keeps it close, always just two or three points behind, until there’s probably four points left. Then, everything changes: his tuts don’t get bigger, his magic doesn’t get flashier. But all the nervousness drains out of Quentin’s face. He looks perfectly composed, tucking his hair behind his ear, and flips up a king, then another, then an ace to his opponent’s queen. The hedge’s eyes aren’t smug anymore. He rolls his neck as an excuse to look over at his boss, and Eliot privately delights in the tension in that momentary gaze.

Last card. Quentin’s lips are just barely curved up, not enough to be a smile, even, just the absence of a frown. The hedge does something strong enough that Eliot can feel the little zip of magic, but Quentin— doesn’t do anything. And his expression doesn’t change.

They flip the cards, and it’s eight over six, Quentin’s point. Quentin’s mouth curves up that little bit more into the subtlest of smirks.

Eliot’s so busy staring at him and willing his heart to stop pounding in his throat that he almost forgets that’s his cue. “An admirable effort,” he drawls to the hedge boss. “The pendant?”

The hedge boss bristles, clearly grinding her teeth, and slaps the artifact in question down on the table. She stalks out of the penthouse, her defeated subordinate trailing a step behind.

The door clicks shut behind them, and Quentin does a quick tut to reactivate their wards, then turns back towards Eliot. “God,” he says, laughing to himself. “How long do you think it’ll take before word gets around I’m just cheating the old-fashioned way, so their spells are _mmf—_ ”

The _mmf_ is because Eliot has leapt from his chair and crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbed the neck of Quentin’s hoodie and hauled him into a bruising, sloppy kiss. Quentin makes a surprised noise and parts his lips under Eliot’s, letting Eliot’s tongue delve into his mouth.

When Eliot finally lets him go, Quentin looks dazed, his mouth pink and well-kissed, his hair a mess from Eliot’s fingers tangling through it. “Jesus,” he breathes. “What—”

“Will you fuck me?” Eliot asks. “I want you to fuck me, I want you in me—” He interrupts himself to kiss Quentin again, grab Quentin’s hands (those fucking sturdy, _talented_ hands, god) and pull them around to his own ass. Quentin catches on immediately and pulls Eliot against him, and makes a hungry noise into Eliot’s mouth when he feels Eliot’s hard cock pressing into his thigh.

“Yeah, fuck, god yes,” he says, and then licks across Eliot’s bottom lip and makes Eliot _whine_. “Fuck. El, what—?”

“That was so fucking hot,” Eliot says. He leans forward to overbalance them a little so he can start steering them towards the bedroom. It’s tricky, moving and not falling over while keeping Quentin’s hands on his ass and also talking and also also maybe kissing the side of Quentin’s neck. “You _destroyed_ them. Where did all that confidence come from? Why haven’t I seen that before?”

“Um,” Quentin says, sucking in a huge breath and then moaning it out again as Eliot tongues his earlobe. “I’m just, I’m good at cards? Fuck, Eliot, can we— are we walking or are we making out, I can’t do everything at once.”

“Your choice,” Eliot murmurs against Quentin’s jaw. “After what I just saw, you get to do whatever you want with me.”

Quentin makes a pained noise and stops their motion to kiss Eliot deeply. Then he pulls back and shoves Eliot back a little, kind of tentatively but hard enough to get his point across. Eliot groans and palms himself through his pants, desperate for stimulation. Quentin looks him up and down. There’s an edge to his expression, a little smug, a little hungry, that sends a shiver through Eliot’s whole body. It’s like all the self-assurance Quentin had to hide during the game has come out to play, and all of it is focused on Eliot.

Quentin looks up at him, his face softening, and asks, “Is, is that okay? If I— you like the confidence thing, right?”

“I like it,” Eliot says, panting, “ _so_ fucking much.”

“Good,” Quentin says, and he grins, not sweet like usual but like he’s going to eat Eliot alive. “Get in the bedroom, then, and get naked for me.”

Eliot goes. Eliot doesn’t trip over his feet, but it’s a close thing. Quentin follows him at a stroll, shedding his hoodie and t-shirt along the way, depositing them on the floor at the foot of the bed. Eliot follows his lead, dumping jacket and tie and vest and all his layers in a heap. Normally it would pain him to treat such a lovely outfit so cavalierly, but that’s what fucking dry cleaning is for, and the way Quentin’s looking at him soothes the pain quite a bit. 

He gets himself laid out on the bed when Quentin nods wordlessly at it, and then is treated to the delicious sight of a naked Quentin Coldwater crawling on top of him, eyes dark and mouth open and cock thick between his legs. As soon as their faces are level, Quentin’s all over him, mouth and hands roaming across Eliot’s overheated skin, moving Eliot wherever he wants him (one hand in Quentin’s hair, one at Quentin’s waist, legs splayed wide, head tipped back) with firm nudges and whispered instructions that Eliot is only too happy to follow. 

Eliot closes his eyes, letting Quentin work him over with the considerable skill he’s accumulated in the several-months-plus-a-whole-lifetime they’ve been together. He rubs Eliot’s nipples to tingling peaks, sucks at the spot under Eliot’s jaw that is somehow directly connected to his dick, pushes Eliot’s hips down into the mattress, holding him in place. He knows precisely how Eliot likes to be touched, the perfect pace and angle to pump Eliot’s cock that will make Eliot try to arch up off the bed and gasp when he can’t.

“None of that,” Quentin says in Eliot’s ear, stroking his cock slowly, like he could do this all night, like Eliot isn’t already aching for Quentin to be deep inside him. “If you put me in charge, we’re gonna take it nice and slow.”

“You are a goddamn tease,” Eliot gasps. Quentin’s low laugh against his neck makes a heat coil tight in his belly. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for taking it slow?”

“If you insist,” Quentin sighs, doing a passable impression of exasperation, and moves backwards until he can kiss the tip of Eliot’s cock. Eliot bites his lip hard and plants his feet on the bed, spreading himself open. Quentin laughs in disbelief. “Seriously? You cannot be _that_ desperate for my cock.”

“I absolutely can,” Eliot says, and then the rest of his argument vanishes from his mind as Quentin swirls his tongue around the head of Eliot’s cock, sucks just at the first inch or so. His lips stretch around Eliot’s girth like it’s almost too much to take, but the look in his eyes is pure confidence. Because, well— Quentin’s _good_ at cards, clearly. But he is fucking _phenomenal_ at sucking cock.

Eliot moans and fists his hands into the sheets as Quentin takes him in deeper and deeper, doing amazing complicated things with his tongue and making sounds in the back of his throat like Eliot’s dick is the best thing he’s ever tasted. Quentin’s eyes burn into him, his gaze flashing unerringly to every piece of evidence of how much Eliot is enjoying this: his panting mouth, his twitching stomach, the flush that feels like it covers his entire body. Quentin visibly catalogs each clue, filing them away into his brain with obvious satisfaction, sucking hard on Eliot’s cock, and Eliot can’t _watch_ this anymore or he’s going to come very very soon.

He’s flying, his heartbeat pounding through his whole body, shuddering at every deliciously dirty noise Quentin’s mouth makes on his dick, when Quentin’s hand leaves his hip. Eliot feels the pattern of familiar tuts against his perineum, then the warm trickle of conjured lube over his skin, Quentin’s strong fingers pushing against his rim, circling, rubbing, teasing—

“Q,” Eliot gasps, grabbing at Quentin’s shoulders and trying to drag him up. “Stop, god, you have to—”

Quentin’s off him immediately, hands in the air. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, a stricken look on his face. “What— sorry, are you okay? Sorry.”

“I’m great,” Eliot says, his heart melting. “I’m amazing, but if you keep blowing me while you open me up I’m definitely going to come.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, looking pleasantly surprised. Eliot cannot fathom how this man who makes Eliot come at least six times a week still seems shocked by it around half the time. “Okay, well. Guess I have to stop blowing you.” He laughs as Eliot’s face twists in poorly-concealed disappointment. “It’s okay. I can still make you feel good.”

“God, I know,” Eliot breathes, as Quentin settles himself back down and presses his fingers to Eliot’s entrance again, steady slick pressure. He feels Quentin slip into him, just a fingertip, then a little further, up to his knuckle and then Eliot’s body shudders and opens for him and he slides all the way in. Quentin presses soft kisses to the base of Eliot’s cock, the crease of his hip, as he starts working his finger in and out of Eliot.

This, too, Quentin is good at. Eliot doesn’t bottom all that often, Quentin loves getting fucked too much for that, but a blowjob plus fingers is a pretty common weeknight (or lazy Sunday morning, or we-have-twenty-minutes-to-spare-why-not) pastime for them. Quentin knows exactly where Eliot’s prostate is, which is what lets him fuck two talented fingers deep into Eliot _without_ touching it, stretch Eliot’s rim open and lick over his balls but never put any pressure on that perfect spot. When Eliot squirms, Quentin plants a hand on his abdomen and _holds_. He probably doesn’t have enough leverage with one hand to actually restrain Eliot if he really wanted to move, but just watching him play at it, raise his eyebrows in chastisement, makes Eliot go breathless and freeze in place.

“Thought you said you didn’t want to come yet?” Quentin asks, with infuriating logic.

“I don’t believe I said _exactly_ that.” Eliot moans as Quentin’s fingers resume their motion inside him.

“I know it’s what you meant, though,” Quentin says. “If you come now, you’ll be too sensitive for me to fuck you — there we go, yeah, relax like that, let me in — and that’s what you want, right? My cock inside you?” 

Eliot swears and throws his head back. The sheets are going to be all the way off the bed by the time they’re done, the way he’s yanking on them trying to keep himself from flipping Quentin over and jumping onto his dick. “Please,” he breathes. He hears Quentin’s breath hitch, and follows that lead. “Is that what— you want me begging? Please, fuck, please put your cock in me, fuck me so hard I scream—”

“Jesus, fuck,” Quentin chokes out. He shifts positions seamlessly, pulling one of Eliot’s legs around his waist as he lines himself up.

Before he pushes in, in that breathless moment where Eliot’s hole is twitching desperately against the tip of his cock, so ready to be filled up, he reaches out and peels one of Eliot’s hands away from its death grip on the sheets, threading their fingers together. Eliot makes a noise that he’d hate to admit sounds a lot like a sob, and Quentin holds his hand and stares intently into his eyes as he slides inside.

“Fuck,” Quentin grates out as he pushes forward. “Fuck, oh f— Eliot, _fuck_ , you feel so _good_.” The wonder’s back in his eyes, the shock that anything can feel like this. He bottoms out, his thighs hot and tense against Eliot’s ass, and lets out a shaky breath. “You good?”

Eliot’s— Eliot’s in heaven. Eliot’s not sure anything exists in the world except the cock inside him, the man above him, their fingers twined together off to the side. “Full,” is the first thing that comes to his mind to say, then, “So good, oh my god, please—”

The sweet affection in Quentin’s face shifts into pure heat. “God, I like it when you beg,” he says, getting his knees more firmly settled under him and then rolling his hips, long sinuous strokes as he tests the angle, makes sure Eliot’s opened up enough to really fuck into. “I’m gonna have to make you do that more often.”

“Anything you want,” Eliot babbles, rocking up into Quentin’s thrusts. He shouts at the ceiling as Quentin proves that yes, he does know _exactly_ where Eliot’s prostate is, and can shove his cock over it on every stroke if he decides to. “Jesus _fuck_ oh my god, Q, slow, slower—”

“First you want me to hurry up, now you want me to slow down,” Quentin says, leaning down to talk against Eliot’s cheek, right in his ear. “Make up your mind already.”

“I want you fucking me hard and I don’t want to come yet.”

Quentin draws his hips back and then snaps them forward sharply, driving into Eliot. “Like that?”

Eliot nods, Quentin’s hard thrusts making him feel too fucking good to form words. Every push sends a spike of pleasure up his spine, radiating out over his skin and through his cock. He squeezes Quentin’s hand, hard, as Quentin’s mouth finds the side of his neck, sucks a mark into his skin. “Good,” he whispers, and “Please,” and Quentin keeps fucking him, panting, letting out little whimpers every time he hits bottom. His balls smack against Eliot’s ass. Eliot’s overwhelmed in the best way, able to just give himself over and let Quentin take care of him, let Quentin push that thick cock into him over and over and drive Eliot absolutely wild. There are noises coming out of him he can’t name, moans and shouts and breathless choked gasps. Quentin rides him hard and Eliot’s so close it almost hurts but he holds back deliberately, Quentin’s face swimming in his vision, full lips open and color high in his cheeks, heartbeat hard and fast.

“El,” Quentin says, choked, and then, “Fuck, gonna—” and Eliot says “Please please please yes” and Quentin fucks him shallower but faster, sheen of sweat down his chest, stomach twitching until he says “Oh fuck—” and buries his face in Eliot’s neck, squeezes Eliot’s hand hard, shivers and twitches and spills deep inside Eliot’s body.

It’s mostly muscle memory that makes Eliot stroke Quentin’s hair, brush a kiss over his temple. “So good, baby,” he murmurs.

“Want you to come,” Quentin mumbles. He lifts his hips and slips out of Eliot, makes a little room in the hot, sweaty press of their bodies, and gets those incredible fingers around Eliot’s dick again. “You were so good for me. So good— yeah, yes—” as Eliot bucks up into his hand and comes hard.

Eliot’s hand is sore from holding Quentin’s so tight, his legs are shaking, he’s covered in sweat and two people’s come. It’s exactly how he wanted this evening to end. He turns his head to catch Quentin’s mouth, kissing him hard.

When their kisses have wound down into lazy brushes of lips, hearts returning to a normal rhythm, Quentin says, “So, uh. Was that what you wanted?”

“It was exactly what I wanted,” Eliot sighs. Quentin dimples and kisses him once more and rolls off him, starting the cleaning spells to deal with the mess they’ve made of themselves and the bed.

A bit later, when Quentin’s tucked warm and pliant into Eliot’s arms, he kind of laughs to himself against Eliot’s chest. 

“Something funny?” Eliot asks.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, and then, “No, well, maybe.” He shifts so he can look into Eliot’s face. “It’s just incredibly funny to me— you fucking _attacked_ me, just from watching me play _cards_. Like. Did you know— I started learning card tricks because I thought it would like, be _impressive_ , and I wouldn’t have admitted it but when I was a teenager I definitely hoped it would help me _get girls_ or whatever. If somebody told seventeen year old me that, keep practicing, someday this is gonna make your boyfriend beg you to fuck him till he screams—” He shakes his head, delight all over his face. “It’s just fucking hilarious that this is the first time that’s actually _worked_.”

“It wasn’t the cards, exactly,” Eliot says thoughtfully. Quentin looks at him skeptically. “Or not entirely the cards. Although that one-handed throw thing— it doesn’t matter.”

“No, no, it definitely does,” Quentin says, pushing up onto one elbow. “What about the one-handed throw thing?”

“Can _you_ go another round tonight?” Eliot asks, eyebrows raised, and when Quentin laughs and shakes his head, settling back down, he says, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. But no, the cards were part of it, but it was you. The confidence, like I said earlier. Almost arrogance, but in a good way. A _hot_ way.”

Quentin shrugs. “I’m good at cards.”

“You’re good at a lot of things,” Eliot says. He traces a finger down Quentin’s cheek, over his jaw. “It just seems like you don’t quite realize it. Or if you do, you don’t own it.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not all comfortable being the center of attention,” Quentin says, pressing his forehead against Eliot’s sternum.

“And that’s fine,” Eliot says. He kisses the top of Quentin’s head. “You should just be aware that when you do choose to own it in front of me, it’s going to result in me begging for your dick.”

Quentin laughs and nuzzles Eliot’s chest. “I think I can live with that.”


End file.
